Once Upon a Time
by entailing
Summary: Severus Snapes story from as far back as he can remember, including childhood, and continuing until he reaches his deathbed.
1. The Prologue: A Peculiar Fairytale

**Once upon a Time....**

_The Prologue: A Peculiar Fairy Tale_

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A slightly hunchbacked and limping pale man with deep-set creases upon his face and a large hook nose ambles slowly towards a large and very worn mahogany desk. The desk is commanding where it sits in the centre of a study laden with books. His face is one that has not aged well, and has never been handsome, debonair, or even charming. Set in the centre of the mans face is a large hooked nose that appears to grow with the man as he ages, a long beard, and longer hair, both tied back with a simple piece of string hang down his chest and back respectively. His hair moves slowly from side to side as he limps to his desk, a familiar path worn into the carpet, a route walked every day near the same time, always by the same man. A man who has the same sneer carved into his face, the jet black eyes always glittering coldly in the mid-morning light. He sits down in the large chair that he favors leans forward, and pulls a new journal out of the drawer on the top right hand side and sighs quietly. The drawer is not locked, and since moving into this home has never been locked. This room is his, and his alone. The Journal is new, and was placed there by himself only the day before. The dust is old, his aged quill, a feather from an old familiar fits perfectly into his hand as he moves to dip it into the new ink well filled now with black ink instead of the red that for many years it contained. Turning the page, the old man slowly begins to write, his thoughts clear and sharp, only the slight shaking of his hand and the slouched over posture give notice to how painful it is to keep the letters straight and in the same spiky font it has, and will continue to be for the man's life. He sits in his chair, and he writes, if not from his heart, then instead from his weary memory.

_To begin my story I must first mention that once upon a time, albeit a very, very long time ago, I, so to speak, was normal. I had hopes and dreams both of which faded with the passing of years into only a fraction of what they once were. When these hopes, and these dreams began to fade, I didn't realize it. In fact, I've only recently come to realize that they disappeared at a very young age, and I believe that part of the reason that they initially began to fade was that I've never had a family in the traditional sense of the word. But then again, I never seemed to need a family, as when I realized that they were non-existent, even before their demise I was on my own. After living such a life it has become one of my beliefs that whoever dictated to another that family was key to normalcy either had what they thought to be the perfect family, or was completely deluded. My support lies with the latter. _

_When I was younger, bitter, and heartbroken I would have loved to have cursed that person had I ever had the opportunity to meet them. Hell, even if I didn't have the opportunity to meet them, I would have most likely tried. Though there was one point in time during which I did dream about having a traditional, loving family, one where hopes and dreams are supported and ultimately achieved, and such achievements were to be joyous celebrations with hugs and smiles, and laughter, oh how I dreamt of laughter. This dream family is the Fairy Tale that every little boy and girl that I have met and had confide in me have already had, or eventually will. Whether it is a constant reminder of the life that one could, or seemingly should have, and in turn desire, or is simply a fleeting thought in a moment of extreme emotion. Those children, a surprising amount of them, and most naive adults who are living a troubled life have and do think about, and hope for with all the powers of their beings are also deluded. Dreams do not come true, at least not if you are the one wearing my shoes. _

_When it did eventually happen, it didn't happen in the way that I had expected it to, not even when I expected it to. Instead, it happened after several years of anguish, betrayal, self-loathing, sarcasm, and a broken heart that after nearly two decades almost killed me. After my brief, yet terrifying encounter with death, I met her. I met my damsel in distress, she saved me, simply by letting me save her. I don't think that she has, or ever will realize just how much she has come to mean to me. I owe her more than just my life. I owe her more than all of my money, she does not deserve my love. Not that she isn't worthy of it, it is just that my love is not worthy of her. And while this is true she has won it, and appears to be happy to have, and continue to be the only keeper of it. My heart has never beaten faster than the first time that I heard her whisper her love for me into my left ear, the ear that she to this very day continues to whisper all of her secrets into._

_And even though I fear that she is soon to pass, and I in turn I fear that I will be unable to tell her any great part of my story of this until it is far too late, and her soul is already among the others that leave this world for wherever they head next, this is what she deserves. She deserves the truth. She deserves to hear it from me. Instead, I can only hope that I will be finished my account, and she will have the time to read it before she dies. After that point, I will finish my story. I will write my final letter, I will send away this journal, the entirety of which will consist of the events in my life from the beginning until the end. _

_This story will be unedited, uncensored, and, if my wishes are upheld, unpublished. This story, will start as soon as you the reader flip the page. Do not skip to the end, do not skip any of the pages. There will be no quiz, no points taken from your house, no curses cast upon yourself if you do. Yes, it is possible for you to go back. That is not the point. The point is to discover how I have lived, loved, dreamt, tortured myself and others, and how with one single event I, the dreaded potions master of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry changed. This is my Fairy Tale, and we shall both have to see whether or not it has a happy ending. And at which point all of this has been completed my once upon a time, complete with happily ever after, will come to a shuddering halt. Bluntly put, I will die._

_S. Snape_


	2. Chapter One: An Inconspicuous Beginning

**Once Upon a Time...**

_Chapter One: An inconspicuous beginning_

Having spent a good portion of the afternoon sitting at the desk within his study Severus slowed, and eventually stopped his writing after the introductory page and a half of his journal, signing it, closing it, and returning it to the upper right hand drawer in the desk. He left his study and turned left to sit with his wife in her room.

"Good evening my dear," he slowly brightened the light in her room so he could see her face, "How was your day?"

She smiled up at him, the creases in her face those of happiness, her once thick hair now falling out in great frizzy white clumps, her eyes were still piercing, even though they along with the rest of her body had softened. It was the one thing that angered her the most, she could no longer read because her eye sight had diminished to almost nothing.

"It was fine Severus, where were you all day?" She asked, cocking her head slightly to one side, attempting to look into his eyes, knowing that it was ineffectual and that he wouldn't tell her without a certain amount of prodding.

"I was reading in my study" he mumbled, not making eye contact, unable to look her in the eye since they had begun turning white, now only a fraction of the brown was visible, also he knew that he could not lie to his beloved, however, he also knew that he could not tell her what he was truly doing or else she would be insistent on him reading it to her immediately.

"No you weren't, otherwise you would have come in here, and read quietly while I slept, or reading softly to me when I have my brief moments of lucidity." She smirked as she chided him softly, chuckling softly to herself when she imagined Severus' gentle grin.

"Of course my dear wife" he responded sarcastically, walking slowly to sit down on the bed with her.

He climbed up slowly, knees cracking, wheezing due to the bronchitis that always set in during the winter. Kissing her on her forehead he sat down beside her, and gently pulled her onto his shoulder.

"I love you my dear," she looked up at him blankly and smiled at him as he spoke to her "I'll love you forever." He looked away as he said this and frowned. He had a foul taste in his mouth from saying those words, knowing that the end was coming all too soon. Wishing that he could lie to her, that forever wouldn't be when he stopped loving her, but instead that he would stop loving her whenever and she could continue to live, perhaps unhappily, but still alive. Pulling herself up she kissed him on the cheek, her voice cracking as she tried to hold back her tears

"Don't you get me started Severus Snape, if you do, I won't stop, and then you'll blame yourself," the small woman teased as she forced a smile onto her face, and patted her husbands arm. As she told him that she loved him her face became contorted as a spasm of pain took over her frail frame. She clutched his arm, tears threatening to fall from her eyes, "Severus, please leave?" she begged, hating for him to see her weakened, knowing that it pained him that he could no longer help. His aged and arthritic hands made it impossible for him to make potions, making him helpless in his own mind. He patted her arm and slowly moved off the bed, his slipper clad feet touching the ground without a sound.

He left her room, closing the door quietly behind him, hearing her muffled sobs as she tried to fight the pain and stay composed for him. Severus refused to look back, knowing that what he would see would only cause him more pain. He felt a tear running down his cheek, and wiped it away as quickly as he could, pretending that it never happened and began to shuffle slowly to the end of the hall, back to his study where he would resume writing until his hands would no longer move.

Again he say down at his desk, pulled his journal out, sighed, and uncapped his little pot of ink, lit a lamp, and began furiously scrawling into the notepad, angry at himself for waiting so long to begin. As he mentally cursed himself he wrote;

_It was January 9, 1959, I was born into the Snape family, a family not prestigious, rich or pureblooded. Instead, I'm half muggle, my mother, Eileen Prince, was a witch. My father, whose name I choose to forget, was nothing but a jealous, angry, drunken muggle who married my mother only once she could prove that I was not some other mans bastard son. _

_I don't remember much of my infancy, as most children don't, all I know is that we were dreadfully poor, my father refusing to work, my mother too sick to work and having to take care of me. Later in my life my father told me that instead of getting an honest job and keeping it for any period of time, though he was able bodied, he would just send my mother out onto the streets to turn tricks for whoever drove by with a fistful of cash. Six year old me would not believe him, my mother was always home when I woke up, and always put me to bed. It was unfathomable to my mind that she was ever anywhere but home. _

_Home was not a happy place, but home was where my mother taught me how to read, tucked me into bed, made sure that I had enough to eat so that I could survive, even if it meant she wouldn't eat, and home was where I would always run when the children in the park would laugh at my even then greasy hair and pale face. Though, at that point it wasn't so much a factor of being submitted to the greasy air above a cauldron, and living in a dungeon, it was lack of money to buy luxuries like shampoo, and my unwillingness to go outside and leave my mother alone for even a moment with my father. This was because whenever I was forced out of the house to go play with children my own age, I would have to leave my books behind, and whenever I would return, my mother would be curled up in a corner somewhere in the house, nursing bruises and lacerations inflicted by my father in a drunken rage. _

_It was because of my returns home, and finding my mother in situations like this where I found myself helpless made my greatest wish throughout my childhood that my mother would tell me that I had a different father, a better father, a kind father, a father that would not get blinded by liquor and come home to beat his wife and small son. A father that would read to me, and have a job so that I could wash my own hair. My wish never came true. I stopped wishing on candles after my first, and only birthday party when my wish did not come true. I did everything correct, I never told a soul what I wished for, except for now, it was completely in my head, I blew out all 7 of the candles in one breath, and I was happy, even if it was only for a few hours. Maybe that was the problem. I was too happy that day. I couldn't have an abusive father if I was that happy, right? I couldn't deserve something like that if I was just another spoiled child on his birthday. I blamed myself._

_I blamed myself for everything. In fact, I still do. Every time that I look into a mirror and see my great crooked nose I grimace, every time someone, except for of course, my dear Hermione, looks at my nose, I sneer. It is and was my fault that it was broken and in turn, is so crooked. It happened a few hours after my 7th birthday party, my father came home and found my mother and I smiling on the couch, I was playing with her wand, making sparks come out the end of it. It wasn't especially impressive, I'd done wandless magic accidentally since I was a toddler, but this was my first controlled feat channelling the energy through a wand. My mother was smiling, the broadest smile I had ever seen, in fact, it was probably the only smile I'd ever seen light up her face. Usually her smiles were tight and forced, but this one, made her truly beautiful. It is the face I see when I try to remember her. White teeth, delicate jawline, straight black hair, thin lips that accentuated how frail her features really were. I don't think she'd ever smiled for my father like that. It was probably why he became so angry upon seeing it. I remember how he bellowed, his harsh words causing my mother to stop smiling and to push me off of her lap, her wand still in my hand. She'd never use it against him for any reason, she loved him. I don't know how or why, but she loved him. _

_She raised her arms in front of her face, and cried out the word "no" over and over again as he hit her. I could feel the anger welling up inside of me. This beast of a father was hitting my beautiful mother. She wasn't smiling anymore, she was crying. I hated him. I could've killed him in that moment. I wish I had. Actually, I don't. He suffered much more later. In either case, I pointed my wand at him and told him to stop. Instantly he froze, no spell required. My mother lowered her arms and looked at me in wonderment, tears filling her eyes as she realized what I'd done. She could no longer protect me from him. I'd "Hurt" him somehow, even if it was only a freezing spell. In that moment that my mother and I made eye contact my small freezing spell wore off and my father turned towards me. I could see the rage in his eyes as he lunged at me. _

_After that I blacked out, or my mind blacked everything out for me. I woke up in a puddle of my own blood on the floor beside the couch. Once I could finally stand I tried to search for my mother. My ankle swollen where I'd landed on it, it was sprained, my nose was broken, only the first out of 6 times in my short childhood. I could feel the dried blood on my upper lip, chin, and when I looked down I could see it on my shirt. My arms and torso were bruised, dark blues and purples, my legs the same, I couldn't breathe very well, and still to this day, along with the bronchitis that sets in every winter I cannot move too quickly for fear of wounding my improperly healed ribs. As I wandered through our small flat, feeling my wounds, seeing what hurt the most, I realized that everything was silent. My fathers shoes weren't by the door when I checked. The door was closed, I locked it. I turned around to go back to my spot on the floor when I heard soft crying sounds. It was my mother trying to hold back her tears, she was sitting on the floor of the broom closet._

_I sat down in her lap, leaning into what warmth she had, and I cried. It was not the first time, nor would it be the last time I would cry over what he did to her. I have never cried for me. I have never seen the reason to. She held me while the tears flooded down her cheeks. We sat there for hours. And all I could think about was how beautiful she'd been only hours before. _

_- S. Snape_


End file.
